


to be loved and to be lost

by StarlightStarwrites



Category: Star Wars, Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Reader is a sex worker, Smut, and a slave/servant, bit of a slowburn, but they bang all the time, guys im sorry they just met but there may be emotions, more smut will be incoming, okay fellas this is it, there are going to be adventures all the freaking time
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:20:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25133038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarlightStarwrites/pseuds/StarlightStarwrites
Summary: For most of your life, you’ve served a lord of your home planet with diligence. When he decides a traitor should be hunted for sport, hunters are invited to the palace, and you are expected to serve your guest’s every desire. You may have been surprised at the presence of a Mandalorian, but the truth is, you have no idea what is about to happen.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Reader, The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Reader, The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/You
Comments: 16
Kudos: 71





	to be loved and to be lost

Your feet made no sound as you walked the hall. The thin slippers you wore ensured that—the only sound you made was the faint tinkling of the chain that dangled from your collar to the metal belt at your waist, and finally to the tight bracelets that always adorned your wrists. They were delicate and gold, purely decorative, but they served their purpose well enough. A constant reminder of your enslavement, no matter how well you were dressed up.

You could feel the cold of the polished stone through your shoes as you approached the assigned room. This hall was lined with rooms given to guests of your master, each of which you were familiar with. You were often sent to serve guests at their pleasure, overseeing that the quarters were as pristine and extravagant as the rest of the palace. And, of course, any _personal_ needs a guest may require.

Your current assignment was expected to arrive this afternoon, after he had been given the arrangements by your master. The servants shuffled about now, preparing the rooms, the food, the bath. You gave orders where needed, but they were efficient. Soon enough you stood alone, waiting at the entrance with a hot bath, soft bed, and table laden with food behind you. For whoever walked through the door, every possible desire would be met. You were used to catering to the desires both professional and primal, of dignitaries, bounty hunters, and anyone in between.

But when a Mandalorian walked through the doors, stopping at a distance, you couldn’t hide the flicker of surprise in your face. You recovered well, as always was required, bowed, and offered introduction.

“Are you the contact?” His voice is gruff, and he speaks curtly, as though he has no interest in what you have to say unless it is about the job for which he is here.

You’re surprised again, first by his manner alone, then by that fact that upon seeing you, dressed as you are and surrounded by so many lavish comforts, he assumed _you_ were the contact.

You bow again slightly, as you were taught, and explain. “I am here to serve at your pleasure, Mandalorian. My lord and master has ensured that all will be provided for you. Tonight, he entreats you to rest and prepare for the coming morning. The details of your task will be given by your contact then, as per the arrangement.”

You do your best to speak delicately, aware that many bounty hunters—the less refined guests of your master—are equipped not only with the temper of any man, but with weapons as well. You had only been the target of such violence twice during your servitude, but it was a terror you never intended to experience again. Though this Mandalorian did not seem ready to attack, you knew the type of man that wanted nothing more than to get to business. With Lord Tyrr as your master, such men were easily irritated.

Your master was more fond of entertainment, the pleasures that would only be found by those with pockets that ran deeper than their egos, than any business he concocted and insisted any guest of his would partake. Though not a particularly cruel man, Lord Tyrr knew there were punishments beyond the physical and delighted in dancing along the line between revelry and torture.

The Mandalorian before you was surely interested in little you had to offer, but he confirmed any suspicion with his next words.

“I’m here for the job. I have no intentions on waiting another day.”

It was another game of your master’s. While the job was most definitely real, if he could not get some enjoyment out of it, he found the whole matter tedious. Most around him found the _game_ to be tedious. The poor bounty hunter was only another pawn, an unwitting player. You knew some of the legends behind the Mandalorian culture just by word of mouth, but they were so few, so fictionalized you could not tell what was true.

You spoke again, resigned to enforcing your master’s demands. “The contact will only speak with you tomorrow, and the job will commence. For now, the baths have been prepared and a meal will be served. Then you may rest or have entertainment.” You could tell from his posture he was unimpressed.

Before he has a chance to respond, you sidle up to him, a pleasant expression on your face, and take his arm in yours. “Please, Mandalorian, allow me to do my job for tonight, and then you may do yours. I assure you, you will only benefit under my care.” You let your hands wander to his bicep, feeling his muscle flex.

He sighs deeply and turns his head away before speaking. “I don’t have time for this.”

You notice he hasn’t pulled his arm away, still stands with you, only turns to gaze down. You wonder if he is glaring under the helmet.

“I understand your frustration,” you think honesty would better put him at ease. “Really, I do.” You sigh too and move your hands so instead of holding onto him, one rests gently at his elbow, the other on the belt over his hip. “My master…this hunt is entertainment for him. That is all I know. I am sorry I cannot do more.”

The arm that you touch moves slowly, his hand coming to rest under your own elbow. Your words have a favorable effect on him, and you think he appreciates the effort. The touch is so gentle you want to melt into it.

Before you get a chance to, he pulls back. “What will happen tomorrow?” As he asks, he pulls the long rifle from over his shoulder and rests it against the table behind the two of you.

Relieved he seems to have accepted the conditions, you don’t hesitate to tell him. “The location of the target will be revealed. You will be expected to find them within the day.”

“The target is here?”

You don’t think his questions are unjust. But he is prying, and you have a job to do.

“I do not have any more information.” You try not to leave room for argument, but you can see it in his body language he still intends to try. You run your hand on his belt to his other hip, pleased with the way he straightens, appearing to be distracted for the moment. “But perhaps I can make it up to you,” you say with a smirk, and your hand runs over his abdomen. He tenses under the touch, bringing his hand back up to brush your elbow, and you find yourself intoxicated with even the subtlest of his reactions.

For a man dedicated to wearing the mask, there’s something about him that makes him easy to read. Perhaps a lifetime of relying on such communication alone makes him so expressive, or perhaps you manage to rile him up too easily. You wonder which is the truth, and the truth of his culture. You want to ask, but you will not go beyond your place.

Instead, you find another way to push a boundary.

“I really must insist that a bath would be in your best interest.” You tell him as kindly as you can. But really, the man _does_ smell beneath the armor. Seeing him in a state of undress at this point is just to satisfy your curiosity.

He’s surprisingly easy to convince. He must know how he appears, the call of hot water and the feeling of being clean too strong for his own internal battle. There is still a resolute stubbornness to him, and you respect it. You allow him in the room alone, let him have his moment, as you retrieve the cloths you promised to bring when he was ready.

You wait a moment after announcing yourself for his permission to enter. You know that everything is prepared, and when you do enter, you are surprised to see him already submerged in the bath, completely bare except for his helmet.

He sinks at the sight of you, subtle enough that you think is trying to avoid your attention. He looks smaller here, under the tall ceilings, no longer covered in layers of armor and weapons. You notice the blaster in its holster within reach of where he sits.

You hope you haven’t overstepped or caused disrespect, still ignorant as to why he would wear his mask even when he wears nothing else. Your attention is fixed on him, and you rest the towels to the side before taking another cloth and wetting it with soap. Your eyes roam him, taking in the marks and scars, the red spreading from his neck to his chest.

He shifts, and your view is limited to his upper half until you walk forward and step into the water to join him. His visor has been fixed on you the entire time, wary, yet seemingly aware of what your next move would be. The thin slippers you wear are meant for getting wet, your clothes so thin that the water makes them cling to you like a second skin. The only thing that moves as though it is not a part of you are the thin chains that still adorn your body.

The Mandalorian shifts at your approach, perhaps embarrassed, but you reach out with reassuring touch to his shoulder to still him.

“Allow me,” you bring the cloth to the same shoulder, following the path your other hand makes, “I promised I would make it up to you.”

He takes a deep breath, and you watch the movement of his chest. He gives a slight nod, letting you into his space. You find a tension of your own is relieved, that you aren’t an intruder, that you haven’t disrespected him. You move freely now, dragging the cloth across the skin of his back as you move to sit behind him and begin to wipe the sweat and the stress from his body.

His muscles are tight as you rub the pads of your fingers into them. You think it is the manner of his work, danger at any corner, the constant movement of that life, some unknown trouble that makes him unable to relax. You want to take it from him, the burden he seems to carry, if just for a few moments.

You don’t know what prompted you to do it—maybe it was the fact that he seemed so human without the armor, or maybe it was the flush of his chest before he even stepped foot into the hot water—but you leaned into him as your hands roamed, massaging sore muscles, and pressed a light kiss to the nape of his neck.

“You can relax,” you whisper into his skin. “You will be safe here and cared for tonight. It is my duty. Work will wait until morning.”

You continue on your quest, the cloth in one hand wiping away any grime from his journey here and the second hand smooth along his skin, attempting to soothe the aches of his body. Instead, you feel him tense again from where you sit behind him. You wonder if he is so unaccustomed to this type of attention, worry that perhaps, even as you do your job, _you_ make him uncomfortable.

“Tell me,” you say, voice soft, “if you want me to stop. I will leave, you only need to say the word.” Your hand slides around to rest on his chest. Even from where it lies, over his left breastbone, you can feel his heartbeat. “You need not worry about offense. I serve, or don’t serve, at your pleasure.”

His breath hitches, heartbeat increasing, and he reaches up a hand to yours, fingers curling around your wrist. You think he means to pull you away, to dismiss you, but he keeps you there, only stopping you from moving further. He sighs from beneath his helmet, and you think perhaps he can’t find it in himself to speak. It’s after another moment passes, when you go to move away, sure that he just doesn’t know how to reject you, that he finally speaks.

His hand on yours grips tighter, keeping you there. “Don’t stop.” His voice is hoarse, but you’re not certain if it is just the helmet. You don’t often want to sleep with the guests you entertain, but there is something so different about this one, about _him_ , that makes you want more.

You move your hand again, and this time he lets you move. You continue to wash him, to explore him really, and finally he begins to relax. It isn’t until you finish with his upper half, reaching down to where he is most sensitive, that he tenses again.

The cloth is between your skin and his, but even still he reacts quickly, hand coming back to wrap around your wrist. Again, he stops you but doesn’t pull you away. You’ve drifted around to his side now, and he turns his head toward you. You meet the eyes of his visor, curious as to what he is thinking. He is tense, maybe unsure of himself, so you move to soothe him again, set on turning him to putty in your hands.

With one hand between his legs, the other reaches up to caress the skin of his shoulder. You stare where you think his eyes would be. “Let me take care of you.”

You say it so sweetly, so sincerely, that he has no choice but to let you go.

With his hand gone, reaching to grip the edge of the bath, you continue to move, washing as your primary goal, your second hand moving from his shoulder to his chest, down to touch the muscles of his abdomen. He was already half hard in your hand before, but as you move on to wash his thighs, his length now curls up to rest on his belly.

He lets out a grunt as you move away, practically torturing him. His head bows, refusing to meet your gaze, and you wonder if he feels embarrassed. You can’t help but smirk as your gauzy clothes drift against him in the water where you stand between his legs, but his reaction prods you to work faster, no longer so intent on doing such a thorough job but just to get _done_.

You wonder if he notices your change in pace before you let the cloth drift away and take your hands to feel him again. You let your hands rest first on his knees, submerged beneath the warm water. He’s wound like a spring, subtly shifting in attempt to relieve some tension, but ultimately waiting for your move.

Slowly, you drag your hands toward him, feeling the skin and scar tissue and the muscle underneath. It pulls you forward, closer to him as he gazes at your form. The water has made your thin clothes cling to you, the chains on your body reflecting light. You should be cold above the water, but he’s warm and you can’t deny the flush of your body as you reach for him.

Your hands now rest at his hips, still under water, and your thumb brushes his inner thigh. He shudders, fist curling at his side. You can’t help but be amused at his hesitance. Lifting a hand, you trail your fingers over his chest, water droplets rolling down to join the water again. His chest heaves faster now, almost panting with impatience, and you decide to have mercy on him.

You reach lower, fingers curling into the hair between his legs, scratching for a moment, then you’re wrapping a hand around his base. He almost pitches forward, and you smile at him, watching the rise and fall of his chest.

You keep your voice low, seductive, and you find yourself leaning forward, lips hovering over the curve of his collar bone. “Is this alright?” You ask.

“Yes!” His answer is quick, eager. You smile before pressing a kiss to his throat as he rushes to collect himself. “ _Yes_.” He lets out a deep sigh, repeating himself in a more practiced voice.

You keep your face close to him, pressing kisses down the column of his throat to his chest, as you keep your hand wrapped tight around him, pumping him slowly under the water. He’s panting in earnest now, tensing when you swipe your thumb over the head of his cock.

His knee lifts and bumps into your hip. You let it pull you closer, nearly laying atop his chest as you suck a mark underneath his collarbone. You increase your pace, teasing his tip, and he lifts his hips with a groan. The man still has yet to touch you, but as you drag a hand over him, reaching with your other to cup his balls, you feel your own want grow within you.

The water of the bath laps on the sides of the pool as you work him, and you finally lift your head from where you’ve left a line of bruises on his chest to see his hands gripping the edge, knuckles nearly white. The sight of his hands, the deepening desire as you manage to pull a moan from him, has you chasing your own pleasure. You lift a leg to place your knee on the same ledge he sits on, straddling his submerged thigh. You’ve gone past the point of caring whether or not you should be doing this.

You lean into him more, not satisfied with the touch you give him. You want to taste him, to feel all of him. You want him closer, and you crave his touch on you. Straddling his leg seemed to be the touch that finally breaks his resolve, and you feel his hand touching light on your lower back, abandoning its anchoring grip on the ledge. It’s then you lean forward, your chests touching, that your head gently bumps his helmet—an accident, but when he nudges you back, practically nuzzling into the side of your face you believe it to be the best thing you could do.

You sigh into him, going to press more kisses into his neck, when he bucks his hips in your hands. Your touch becomes rougher, feeling his velvety head, stroking the protruding vein on his length before squeezing gently. You had been thinking of how much more you wanted, that you didn’t realize just more he needed.

You’re quick to please him, stroking him again before pushing your forehead into the side of his helmet. It’s not enough to be here in the water. You want to see all of him, want the room to really take care of him. For the first time since you started, your hands leave him to slip under his legs and raise them slightly.

“Up,” you rasp to him, lifting more to encourage him.

His hand leaves your back to return to the edge of the tub, scrambling to do as you order. You think that as you hold him in your hands, you could make him do anything. You keep your grip on his legs, moving with him and climbing up the ledge, watching his hardened cock, the flexing of his muscles, as you attempt to tame your want for him.

He sits up out of the water now, and you rise in front of him, water streaming down your body as you emerge to follow him. You don’t bother to stand, just come to your knees and crawl over his lower half as he scoots back from the bath. Your sheer clothes stick to you, hiding nothing, and the chains from your wrists dangle over his bare legs. You push his knee away to slip back between his legs and take his hips in your hands, easing him over as he moves with you. Eager to please, to find your touch again.

Both of you are breathing heavily, his hand finding a place as he takes your arm, pulling you with him as he lies on the floor and you follow, hovering over him. Your one hand never leaves his length as you settle on the wet marble. It’s cold, a jarring difference from the warm water, but you’re only focused on one thing. The warmth from the man beneath you. You use your other hand to pull his thighs apart, finally settling between his legs. He opens easily despite his earlier hesitation.

He holds your one arm in a tight grip, and you wish he would just pull you closer. But there is a reason you brought him out of the bath, and you haven’t forgotten it. He’s hard and throbbing in your hand and you want to take a moment to appreciate his size, how nice he looks spread out before you, but it’s not enough. It wasn’t before, and certainly not now. Your need grows stronger as you take him in, and you press your legs together with hope of relieving tension. You take your hand up his thigh over his abdomen to his chest and push. He lies back against the floor with a groan, hips automatically bucking closer to you and find your own legs trembling.

He is so willing, so good for you. You swear you’ve never wanted someone like you’ve wanted him. Part of you thinks it is the mystery, the pushing of boundaries between what is allowed and what is forbidden. Another part of you just takes a look at the cock hot in your hand, the hard muscles so easily moved by you, and think that the man they belong to has treated you more decently than any you’ve known.

Water drips from him, across his skin, down his legs to pool beneath the two of you. But now you can fully see him, you see the precum from his tip, enough for a bead to roll down his length. You don’t stop to think. Your head dips and you lick it from him, coming to his head and sucking gently.

He _shouts_.

You don’t remember anyone as vocal as he has been. He may not have spoken a word besides the array of curses, but every sigh, groan, and moan has gone straight to that spot pulsing with need between your thighs. You want to give him more, you _want_ to serve him, if just for a night. You want to hear every sound he has to make, to make him feel safe and relaxed and filled with pleasure. You briefly wonder whether you should draw it out or give him what he needs. Both of your desperation wins out.

Your mouth doesn’t leave him, tongue swirling his tip as his hips jerk under your steady hand. You give him a moment, moving from his head to lick down to his base, hand following and pumping steadily as you take his balls into your mouth. His leg comes up and nearly hits you in the face. You hear another muffled moan as you take both hands to pin his hips to the floor and you look up to his helmet briefly.

“Stay down for me, hmm?”

His hands had left you, searching randomly for something to grasp. They went briefly to his head as though to grab his hair, before finding the helmet. He groans in frustration, and you bring your hand up his body taking every opportunity to feel his skin. One of his quickly follows your movements, taking yours in his much larger hand, and your fingers entwine atop his stomach. Your other hand wraps around his base again, and you’re taking him in your mouth, this time refusing to move your gaze from his visor. His head is lifted from the floor, watching you as you take him as deep as you can and bob slowly.

He speaks now, saying something in a language you don’t understand. You think it’s a curse when he says it again but louder. You continue to fuck him with your mouth, swirling your tongue on him as your hand reaches to fondle him. You have to lean a shoulder onto his thigh to stop his thrusts into you, to control the pace as you work him faster.

He’s close, you can tell, his swears increasing in volume and color. You recognize some of the words. The hand you hold on his chest tightens its grip, and you think if he breaks your fingers it would be a worthy sacrifice. His other hand gives up from his restraint and reaches to your hair. It’s surprisingly gentle. He doesn’t pull your hair or force your movements. His fingers slip into your carefully fashioned hair, following as your head moves up and down on him. You think he just needs the security of touch as he nears his release, and you revel in it, the careful affection of this man.

You can feel him twitch in your mouth, closer now, and you find yourself seeking his pleasure as though it were your own. You try to change pace, first taking him deeper, then faster. Increasing your pace makes him more frantic—his hand fists in your hair, his hips are nearly vibrating, his voice calls out a string of curses. You realize just how slick you have become, the clenching of your thighs the only pressure you can find. You don’t think anymore, just take him in and let the obscene sounds you both make guide you.

You watch the rapid rise and fall of his chest, turned on by the gasps he makes as you suck him in your mouth. His release surprises him with its force, making him throw his head back, and you hear the metal clang on the marble as his cum hits the back of your throat. His knees have lifted in defense from where they were spread, and the strangled gasp he gives makes you wetter by the second. You don’t stop even as you taste him, swallow his cum, clean him thoroughly with your mouth. Both his hands are now in your hair, and you didn’t even realize when he had released your hand.

He pulls gently, a silent plea for you to release him, let him recover from the intensity of feeling you around him, pulling him through his high. Your freed hand trails back to his hip, caressing along his side as you slow, licking the last of his release from his skin and letting him fall from your mouth. He shudders as your heat leaves, a hand disappears from your hair, the other still there and soft, and you feel his thumb gently trace your hairline. He is still trying to catch his breath, and the sound that comes from him as he trembles does nothing to alleviate your arousal. You think you could come from a single touch from him alone.

He lies there on the floor for another moment, and from where you kneel above him, you think he looks like art. His skin is covered in a layer of sweat, from the heat of the room or your acts, and you seek a peek of the underside of his jaw from this angle. You think you can see dark hairs from underneath his helmet and wonder if you should feel ashamed for staring. Your gaze quickly moves to the darkened marks along his collarbone and make a line down his sternum. You glance down more and trace your thumbs over two more marks, one on each hipbone, that you don’t even remember making. He is art, and you had a hand in making him like this. As you still sit above him, in the few precious seconds before he recovers, you think he is beautiful.

And you have yet to even see his face.

Before his hand leaves the side of your face, you lean forward to place a gentle kiss on his chest, right over one of your marks, where underneath his heart beats strong. He lifts his other hand to your face, pulling you back slightly as he sits up. You allow him to move you, feeling a sudden longing as he cups your face in his hands and holds you there, close, yet not close enough. You open your mouth to speak when he drops his head slightly, moving his visor from your eyes, but bringing his forehead to yours.

It’s a gentle gesture, one with care and thanks in it, and you wonder what he intends next. You both close your eyes for a moment, content to share the quiet, not ready for the apprehension that comes later. You think of the heat between your own legs, your own arousal calling you to act, but your professionalism preventing you from moving again.

You wonder what he is thinking.

You’re still kneeling between his legs as you both sit on the floor, and he begins to pull away with a deep breath you can hear through the helm. It feels like a goodbye. You don’t let it stop you from speaking.

“Tell me what you need,” you whisper. The room is still besides the two of you, and the sound carries, buoyed by the water. It might have been spoken quietly, but it is loud enough to break the calm.

He shifts, you see a tension beginning again in his shoulders, and a hand leaves your face to touch the edge of his helmet.

“I—I should…” He trails off and you realize he is pulling away. He remembers your purpose here, what stands between you. He needs his privacy, and you have outstayed your welcome. You bite down a sting of disappointment and give a sweet smile. You won’t let him push you away, and instead you offer your absence.

The smile never leaves your face as you lean closer to him. You recognized him as a man of honor—a rarity in life, you’ve found—and you can see in him a determination, a strength, that will bring him to do something great. You wonder if that’s why you press your lips to the face of his helmet, right where you imagine his lips to be.

Or maybe it is just the fact that you found a temporary home in his gentleness, stared at his scarred skin and made a dent in his armor that is deeper than the metal plates that rest to your side. Or maybe you took what you want and laid it on him. Chosen him as a vessel for your own fantasy. After all, even as your fingers trace the curve of the helmet, he is still a mystery.

“I will leave you,” you say, no longer whispering. “I’ll leave your meal in your room while you are here. Should you want, the doors can be locked so no one will disturb your privacy. You may rest safely there. I will be nearby if there is anything else you need.”

It’s easy to say it like a dismissal. You will see him again in the morning. You think of the tension already returning to him and accept there is nothing more you can do. He may be the same man who walked through the door tomorrow, or he may be the man underneath you, the one who allowed himself to give and feel affection. You hope he does not resent this moment, but as you move away, you remember how he held your hand, touched his forehead to yours. No, you don’t think he will resent you.

You both came to stand, and before you left you made sure to wrap a towel around his waist and trailed your fingers down his arm in what you hoped was a comforting touch. The marble floors felt even colder under your wet feet, but you were too distracted by what was to come to notice. Tonight, you had insisted the Mandalorian should rest and prepare. Now, it was your turn to get to work.

The hunt may start only when your master allowed it, but there was always information to be found, of challenges as dangerous as they were meant to be entertaining. It would ensure winners as there were losers. And you were going to make sure your Mandalorian won.

**Author's Note:**

> if you've gotten this far, bless. the next chapter will follow the hunt and may be short on smut. but trust me, these two are all over each other in the future. please leave me a comment! i love to have feed back so i know what to do for what's coming. this is cross posted from tumblr (starlight-starwrites). come say hi!


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